


try to swim and stay afloat

by paradis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Happy Ending, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradis/pseuds/paradis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'M tired," Stiles whines. "Derek if I just -"<br/>"No," Derek says. And he says it so simply; it's not mean or meant to hurt Stiles, it's just his honest answer. Stiles chokes on a sob. He's so <i>tired</i>, and all he wants is just one. One shot. He knows he'll feel better, and he hates Derek for saying no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	try to swim and stay afloat

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers for:  
> -drug use (heroin)  
> -drug addiction (heroin)  
> -prostitution
> 
> Title is a little mixed up version of the lyric 'Tried to swim and stay afloat,' from The A Team by Ed Sheeran. _Try_ sounds more encouraging, and _tried_ sounds to death-y for this fic. 
> 
> The story goes like this. I've been listening to The A Team and drug addiction with this particular drug is kind of a personal thing for me, and the song hit really hard. Before I knew it, yesterday I started writing this, and apparently it really wanted out. It hasn't been sent out to be betaed because it was written really quickly, and I sort of have a serious love for this.

He doesn’t do it because he’s got some sad sob story.

His life wasn’t the greatest, but it was nothing that was tragic, either. Single parent home, a dad that was a little too dedicated to his job, but loved him endlessly no matter what, was always there for him, supported whatever decision he made. A mom that died when he was eleven. A best friend who was great, if a little too obsessed with his girlfriend. 

It’s a good, if somewhat depressingly boring life.

He tells himself he’s looking for a way for life to get more interesting. He finds it at one of Lydia Martin’s parties, where, in the back corner, there’s a bunch of the more popular kids surrounded by a less popular, known drug dealer in the town. Jackson Whittemore smirks at Stiles and asks him if he wants to know what it feels like. Stiles feels daring in that moment; like he’s dangling over the edge of a building, about to jump, but he has to make the decision to step back, or step over the ledge. 

He jumps over the ledge. 

Jackson gets him all set up. Stiles has never even smoked pot, but Jackson shoots him up with what he refers to as ‘Class A shit,’ tying the band around his arm and finding a vein to stick the needle in. 

Stiles loves it. There’s a weightless feeling to him, his head free of thoughts, careless and somehow less lonely. He loves the feeling, loves the way there’s more and less to him suddenly at the same time. He can’t get enough from it. He passes out in Lydia Martin’s hallway and Scott has to drag him back to the car, where they both crash, because they can’t go home. 

He does it again. And again. And again. By around the fifth time Stiles is probably what most would call addicted. He’s spending all his savings on the drug, but he’s loving his life, living high and free. His dad isn’t home – it’s the summer before college, but Beacon Hills’ crime rate has somehow soared sky high in the last couple weeks – so he doesn’t notice a change in Stiles. 

Until Stiles says he’s not going to college. He loses it. His Dad shouts and screams and yells about how he’s ruining his life, and what possibly could’ve made him choose to drop his free ride to college. He threatens. He tells Stiles that if he isn’t going to college he’s not going to live at home, he’s going to get a job and he’s going to move out. 

Stiles is too high to care. He nods blurrily and stumbles up the stairs with his Dad yelling more and more after him. He tumbles onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, grinning, until he falls asleep. 

His Dad keeps his promise. He gives Stiles enough money for a first month’s rent and a security deposit, tells him good luck, and takes back the key to his house. Turns out he knows more about Stiles’ new habits than Stiles suspected. Scott is already at college. Jackson is already at college – and was never that much of a friend anyway. None of Stiles’ other friends are around town, and Stiles figures he shouldn’t stick around, either. He buys enough from the dealer in town to get him across the country and starts driving until he hits New York. 

Somehow he ends up in the city, and he’s spent all the money his dad gave him, so he has nowhere to go. He sleeps in his car for a couple nights.

It’s how he meets Sammy. 

He’s making the rounds on the block, and Stiles was stupid enough to think that if he just parked in one of the dumpier streets, he would find someone who could score him a couple grams and a new needle. Sammy isn’t a dealer but he knows his way around the city to some. “You need to sell that,” he gestures toward Stiles’ Jeep. “You won’t need it for the city anyway, and it’ll get you some extra cash.” 

Stiles sells it to a dealer for five hundred bucks and spends it all on more heroin. He tells Sammy he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, and that’s when Sammy tells him about his job. “You blow dudes for money,” Stiles says, and he’s high and he’s careless and for some reason this seems funny to him.

Sammy isn’t big on the harder drugs, but he’s a pothead, so he’s laid back in the moment. “I do whatever dudes want me to for money. Unless it’s like, beating and shit; I’m not into that.”

Stiles is high but he’s running low and he knows he won’t make it to the next day with the amount he’s got now, so he shrugs. “Show me how it’s done, man.” 

He’s never had sex. 

He loses his virginity to a guy who pays him three hundred and fifty bucks to fuck him and argues about wearing a condom. Stiles tells him there’s no way his virgin ass is getting stuffed full of a random stranger’s condom-less dick, and the guy agrees when he hears Stiles is a virgin because guys who are paying for prostitutes are already pretty creepy anyway.

He’s surprisingly good at sex. Sammy tells him it’s because the drugs make him more relaxed, and Stiles knows it’s true, because when he’s losing his high or running low and trying to stretch his stash out, he’s jittery again, he fumbles more, and he can’t relax as much. 

Sammy teaches him all the spots to get the most business, stands with him some nights until his regulars come along, and then he disappears for a couple hours. After a couple months, Stiles starts to get some regulars, too, and they’re not all nice, but they’re not all terrible. Some try and make sure Stiles gets off, too, and others use him and leave the cash with him, disappearing. Stiles almost never has trouble with men that are too rough, but the couple times he does, Sammy and a few of the other people Stiles is starting to make friends with fend them off. 

A year passes in a heroin-glazed blur; track marks on Stiles’ arms get darker and darker. He gets beat up twice by some johns that aren’t happy with his prices. He lives in a shitty one room apartment on a street where he hears gunshots nightly, and his room is lit up but flashing police lights most evenings. Sirens are his background music, and his coffee table is littered with needles, spoons, lighters, and foil. He’s skinny and gaunt-looking, he never smiles anymore, and some days he wonders what he ever thought was so great about shooting up in the first place.

The forgetting. 

Forgetting his mother’s smile, forgetting the way his dad laughed when they danced around the kitchen with her, lifting Stiles up and dancing with him, too. Forgetting the pressures of being such a gifted student, but also such a nerd he only ever had one friend, and never ever got a second glance from his redheaded high school crush. 

The forgetting is why he thought it was so great, and the forgetting is why he keeps doing it. He forgets the way his mother looks so fragile and ill on the hospital bed. He forgets the way she cried when her hair started falling out. He forgets the way his dad drank day in and day out for three months straight and cried every night and looked at Stiles like he was the biggest burden in the world. 

Two years go by and Stiles is broken, fragile, skinny and pale and sickly looking. He’s cold constantly, because he never has heat in his apartment. He gets tired fast and sick if he doesn’t shoot up and he hates working the streets because he coughs and can’t stay warm and sometimes business just isn’t worth it. 

He hasn’t talked to his dad or Scott in two years. He doesn’t have a phone. Hell, he doesn’t even have electricity half the time. 

He forgets the way his dad looked at him when he told him he wasn’t going to college. He forgets the way Scott looked at him when he shot up for the second time – such a look of disappointment. He forgets the way his dad sounded so frustrated when he kicked Stiles out.

That’s what keeps him going. 

+

He meets him randomly. He’s wandering down the streets and he stops and stares at Stiles. “Lookin’ for something?” Stiles purrs. The illusion is kind of ruined by the way he bounces to keep warm and rubs his hands together. He’s starting to get jittery. 

“No,” The guy says flatly, but he keeps staring at Stiles. 

Stiles blinks back. 

“How much?” He finally asks after two minutes. 

“Depends on what you want,” Stiles says, smacking his lips together. 

“The whole night.” 

Stiles whistles. “I got regulars but they never want that.” 

“Just tell me,” he growls. 

Stiles thinks about it for a moment. Sammy recommended what Stiles should charge for everything, and sometimes Stiles raises or lowers his price depending on who the john is, but he’s never had someone ask him for the whole night. Finally he shrugs. Eight hundred will get him rent and food and money for his dealer, plus a couple extra grams. “Eight hundred,” he says, and the guy studies him for a moment, lips pursed, eyes narrowed.

“Fine. Let’s go.” 

“Uh,” Stiles says, but he reaches out and grabs his arm and pulls him back to the direction he came from. They reach a sleek black town car where a driver stands waiting. He opens the door and shoves Stiles forward, into the car. “Look, I need to – can we stop at my apartment?” Stiles’ knee bounces and he glances at him. 

“No,” he says shortly. 

They drive for maybe twenty minutes, the traffic light, and reach a building with a doorman who nods and calls the man leading Stiles forward and says, “Evening Mr. Hale.” Mr. Hale nods. 

Mr. Hale’s apartment is huge. It’s modern and sleek and it feels empty still. “Wow,” Stiles says. “So, um. Mr. Hale –” 

“Derek,” he interrupts. 

“Derek,” Stiles says, starting again. “I just – are you sure you –” 

“Shower,” Derek interrupts him again. Stiles stares wide eyed at him. 

“Wow, straight to it, huh?” 

“No,” Derek says impatiently. “ _You’re_ getting a shower.” He shows Stiles to the bathroom, which is huge, shows him how to turn the millions of different showerheads until he finds one he likes, and then tells Stiles to wait there. When he comes back he’s holding a towel and some sweats. He sets them on the counter. “Come out when you’re done and I’ll have food waiting for you.” 

Stiles’ mouth is open wide, and he’s probably starting to drool in confusion, but Derek just turns and disappears down the hall, and the shower is starting to steam up and it feels nice, so he gets in. He spends twenty minutes in the shower because it’s a fucking _nice_ shower. He gets out and dries himself off and puts the sweats on. Derek didn’t give him a shirt or underwear, and Stiles figures that’s how Derek wants him, so he heads out to the kitchen. 

Derek’s finishing up scrambled eggs, and he butters the toast when it pops up. He sets two plates down at the kitchen island and gestures for Stiles to take a seat at one of the booths. Stiles sits down and stares at him until Derek rolls his eyes and waves a hand at the food before taking a bite of his own food. Stiles is hungry so he eats fast. Derek eyes him. “What was the last time you ate?” he asks. Stiles swallows noisily and tries to think. 

“I think a banana? Yesterday morning?” 

He had a fourth of a banana until he realized that the banana was really squishy, a sign of it going bad, and he threw it out. 

Derek grimaces. “Eat,” he says. 

When they finish eating Derek does the dishes, and Stiles sits there, growing antsier by the second. His knee bounces and his fingers tap against the counter. Derek looks at him, shaking his head. “Come on,” he says, and Stiles follows him to Derek’s bed. It’s huge. Stiles stares at it for a long moment before he shrugs, and starts to take the sweats off. “What are you doing?” Derek turns around to look at him.

“Uh,” Stiles says, staring at him. “I thought –” 

“No.” Derek’s tone is hard. “You’re sleeping here. I’m not having sex with you.” He says it so simply, like he didn’t just pay a prostitute eight hundred dollars to have the night. “Get in bed,” he adds, staring at Stiles. 

And he’s intimidating, and Stiles kind of wants to listen anyway, because even though Derek is scary quiet and kind of miserable, he feels _safe._ Stiles is itching for a fix but he knows he won’t get one tonight – and he probably won’t sleep, either, but he listens because for eight hundred bucks that’s what you do, especially when it involves not having to have sex. He scrambles into the bed, and Derek pulls the covers over them. 

Stiles stares up at the ceiling, fingers twitching. 

Derek turns the light out and they’re both quiet for a couple minutes, until Derek sighs. “How often?” he murmurs, reaching over and stilling Stiles’ shaking hand. 

“Four times a day,” Stiles says automatically. 

“Why?” Derek asks. Like there has to be a reason. Like there should be some sob story. Like Stiles is just bursting at the seams, waiting to tell his story. Stiles never tells his story because it’s a stupid one. Some jock at a party helped him shoot up the first time, and Stiles liked the feeling, so he never quit. He lost the little family he had left and he sells himself off the streets just for more of the one thing he now hates in the world. 

“To forget,” he says finally. 

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Does it work?” 

Stiles thinks about his mother’s smile and his father’s laugh and Scott’s asthma and Lydia Martin’s lip gloss. 

“No,” he says finally. 

“But you’ll keep trying?” Derek asks. 

Stiles shrugs. “Maybe until I find something that does make me forget.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything else, but he rolls over and wraps his arms around Stiles, and Stiles relaxes. Like, instantly. He feels safe and warm and sure, he still needs a fix, but the feeling isn’t as overwhelming. He drifts off to sleep and even though he hasn’t shot up since early evening, he feels okay. 

In the morning, Derek offers a proposition.

“You – what?” Stiles blinks. 

“Just what I said. I’ll hire you full time, but there are…. Guidelines.” Derek’s lips purse. 

“Guidelines,” Stiles repeats nervously. 

“No prostituting as long as you work for me,” Derek says. Stiles chews on his bottom lip, but nods. “You’ll stay here until I’m home from work, but if you would like to go somewhere when I get home, I can take you. If you really need to go somewhere while I am at work, you can call Boyd and he’ll take you. No drugs.” 

Stiles opens his mouth. “I don’t think I can –” 

“You can,” Derek interrupts, looking sternly at him, “and you will, if you want to stay here.” 

“What if –” 

“Cold turkey,” Derek says. Stiles breathes in and out. The thing is, it’s a good setup. No more working the streets, no more shitty apartment, no more _drugs._ Stiles isn’t one of those addicts who _loves_ the high anymore. He just doesn’t know how to stop. It’s his life and he’s been living it for near three years now. Derek is offering him an out and Stiles would be stupid not to take it. 

“What would I be doing… here?” Stiles asks slowly. 

Derek shrugs. “If you want to do some online classes when you’re finished with withdrawal, I can pay for them. If you want to learn how to knit I’ll buy you the stuff. Learn to play the guitar. I don’t care.” 

“And… you?” Stiles asks uncertainly. Derek’s spine stiffens.

“I’m paying you to _live_ ,” Derek says. “I’m not paying you for sex.” 

“Why?” Stiles blurts out, and Derek eyes him for a long moment. 

“Because you looked sad,” he finally says, and then pulls a contract out of his briefcase and shoves it at Stiles. “Think about it today. If you want to do it, sign it and still be here when I get back from work. If you decide not to, I guess you won’t be here.” 

“How do I – I’m not sure I can…” Stiles trails off, glancing down at his arms. Track marks litter them. Derek still hasn’t given him a shirt. 

“If you say yes now, I can get someone here to offer you help,” Derek offers. 

Stiles says yes. He isn't sure when, but there's a light in Derek's eyes that says he approves. He disappears to make a phone call and comes back. "Read over that still," Derek instructs Stiles, pointing at the contract still clutched in his hands. "Sign it, but wait for me if you have any questions."

"Did you draw this up last night?" Stiles asks.

"Yes." Derek shifts uneasily on his feet. Stiles doesn't say anything, just nods and stares down at the packet of papers in his hands.

"Erica will be here in twenty minutes. I can stay," Derek says. Stiles thinks about it. He feels like he needs a fix, yeah. But it's not overwhelming, not yet. It's just the habit. He thinks he can make it twenty minutes on his own. He shakes his head.

"I'll be okay," he whispers. Derek nods sharply.

"Erica's a nurse. She's a friend," Derek explains. "She works at a pretty exclusive rehab outside of the city. I've managed to convince her to stay here for a few days to help you. She'll explain what you're going to go through, and she's bringing some stuff that will help you through it. Your symptoms probably won't start until late tonight or tomorrow morning. Right now you just want it because you haven't had it yet."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Stiles blurts out.

Derek's eyes narrow. He opens his mouth to say something, but the apartment's buzzer goes off. Derek walks over to the speaker and turns it on. "Mr. Hale, there's a Ms. Reyes here for you."

"Let her up," Derek says, and turns it back off. He grabs his coat and starts putting it on. "If you need me, my cell phone number is on the dry erase board on the fridge. I can't promise I'll answer it right away but I'll try. Anything else?"

"Your tie is crooked," Stiles says. Derek blinks and looks down.

"So it is," he murmurs. He reaches up and tries to straighten it, but only makes it more crooked. Stiles sets the papers down on the counter and walks over. He reaches up with trembling fingers and straightens it for him. Derek looks at him, amused. "You spend a lot of time fixing ties?"

Stiles dry swallows. "I used to - my dad - on court days..." He can't talk about it, not really. The words trip and tumble around in his mouth and they never end up coming out right. One time a year ago Sammy asked him what his story was and Stiles punched him because he hated thinking about it.

Derek looks like he's about to say something else but the door swings open. A blonde girl walks in, teetering on heels, dressed in skinny jeans, a black knit beanie, a red wool coat that brushes against her knees, mittens, a black scarf, and carrying a huge box. She's kind of gorgeous but Stiles can already tell she's a girl filled with attitude and that she's smart and nothing will get by her. "Alright, Derek, I'm here to babysit. I know you're probably already having an anxiety attack about not getting to the office on time."

Derek narrows his eyes at her. "Erica," he says flatly. Erica flashes a smile at him.

"Derek," she says sweetly. Stiles gets an overwhelming flashback to red hair an green eyes and lip gloss covered lips.

Lydia. She reminds him of Lydia. It doesn't make him as anxious as he figured it would have.

Beside him, Derek glances over at him. "You'll be alright?" He asks, eyes searching Stiles' face.

"Fine," Stiles swallows. "Erica has her box of goodies."

"I'll try to be back by seven," Derek says. Erica snorts and Derek gives her a glare.

"Just go," she tells him. "Boyd is waiting and it's snowing. He'll get sick."

Derek sighs. "Fine." He picks his briefcase up, nods goodbye to Stiles and Erica and walks out.

"Well," Erica says, setting the box down. She pulls an Xbox out. "Have you ever played one of these?"

Stiles swallows. "Not for a couple years," he admits. Erica takes her time studying him before she nods.

"Help me set it up," she tells him. "I'm afraid the only game my boyfriend was willing to let me take was Call of Duty. Not the best, not the worst. He just got the newest Xbox model; that's the only reason I was able to bring this."

"Thanks," Stiles says, staring at the at the game console. Erica leads him to the living area. The apartment is all an open floor plan, doorways to the bedroom and bathroom visible from every angle in the place, but Stiles has only really glimpsed at the couch and coffee table in the middle of the room, and the giant screen TV hanging on the wall. He helps Erica hook it up and then sits down and stares at the controller.

"I hope I kick your ass," Erica tells him, before hitting start.

They play for about an hour. Stiles doesn't think about how he hasn't had a single ounce of heroin since last night. Erica only talks to say, "Gotcha bitch," and Stiles only talks to say, "Finally," when he gets in a kill.

After the hour though, Stiles is a little antsy. Erica eyes him. "How'd you end up in New York?" She asks him, still hitting buttons on her controller.

"Maybe I'm from here," Stiles suggests.

"Nah," Erica shakes her head. "You're a small town kid."

"West coast," Stiles grunts, shooting at Erica on screen. Erica nods. Stiles bounces his knee a little. "Erica," he says softly. Erica pauses the game.

"You want it, right?" She asks, looking at him speculatively. "It's the only thing on your mind. How you haven't done it in a while. How you're so used to doing it so routinely. Four, five times a day."

"Yeah," Stiles whispers.

Erica shrugs. "Talk to me," she says.

Stiles thinks for a moment. "What does Derek do?" Erica snorts.

"He's a lawyer. A partner."

"Partner? He's awfully young for that," Stiles says. Erica shrugs.

"He's good at what he does. One of the highly recommended in the city. He's good at negotiating."

Stiles nods. "Is he like... Senior partner?"

Erica laughs. "He's the first Hale in Hale & Hale Firm." Stiles arches a brow, surprised.

"His father was, originally. His parents died. Derek's sister... Didn't follow in his parents footsteps. He was young, just out of law school, but he argued that he could control his father's half of the firm."

Stiles clears his throat. "Who is the other Hale?"

"His uncle, Peter," Erica answers. "He's... Not as... He's a good lawyer but there are people who don't agree with his methods."

"You're one of them?"

"Yes," Erica frowns.

"What about you? You're a nurse?" Stiles asks. Erica nods. "At some fancy rehab center?"

"Yes. Mostly a lot of the clients are rich, looking to have a place more like a resort than a hospital. I don't really blame them - they seem to have more success rates, healing near the ocean rather than locked up in some white- walled room."

"How'd you meet Derek?"

Erica frowns again. "That's Derek's story," she says. "I told you the other stuff because it's simple stuff you could find on google. I'm not the person to ask about that. Let's just say we met at a difficult time in Derek's life, and I was happy to help him get through it. In turn, he was grateful. He introduced me to my boyfriend and we've been friends for a long time now."

Stiles nods. Erica says, "Tell me your story, Stiles." And Stiles' throat clogs up, and he doesn't say anything. After a couple minutes of a long silence, Erica offers a smile. "I've heard them all," she says. "The daddy who beat the shit out of his little girl until she ran away to live on the streets and her new boyfriend taught her to snort crack and beat the shit out of her. The American All Star boy who didn't have a thing wrong with his family - they just loved him too much. The mom who drank a bottle of vodka every night."

Stiles' mouth is dry and he blinks at her. "It's not a story - there's nothing - I just. I got stupid," Stiles says. "I got stupid and suddenly there was no way to turn back."

Erica smiles at him, reaches out and pats his shaking hand. "There's always a way to turn," she says. "It's just a matter of choosing the right way." Stiles doesn't say anything. Erica says, "Do you like cookies? I happen to know Derek has a sweet tooth and always keeps a bag of chocolate chips in the cupboards. How about we make cookies?"

Stiles says yes.

They make cookies and then Erica pops in a movie and it's something easy to follow, with barely any action on screen so it doesn't make Stiles dizzy. By the time the cookies are cool enough to eat, Stiles is shaking and his stomach is cramping. He's got a fever, cold sweat breaking across his forehead. He looks at Erica, who is feeling his head to get an idea of his temperature, and then he covers his mouth and bolts to the bathroom.

When he finishes puking, Erica comes in with a two pills and a glass of water. "Withdrawal is starting early," she frowns.

"Fantastic," Stiles groans, and throws up again before he swallows the pills.

+

"I had a full ride," Stiles says three days later on the bathroom floor, voice hoarse, throat burning from the stomach acid that keeps trying to escape. Derek clicks his tongue, hmm's, and keeps stroking his back soothingly.

Stiles thinks blearily, it must be the weekend. Erica has stayed with him the last three days, shoving nausea pills and Tylenol at him. He can't have anything stronger, nothing addictive. He's cursed both Derek and Erica probably a thousand times in the last 72 hours. He's begged, he's bargained, he's downright sobbed and pleaded, and the answer from both of them is always a stony faced no.

"Berkeley," Stiles murmurs into Derek's stomach. His stomach is calm but he's practically lived in the bathroom for the last three days. He slept here the first night. Derek brought in two blankets and pillows and stayed with him the whole night while Erica slept in the guest bedroom and woke up routinely to check on him. He's stayed every night. Stiles is not afraid to admit he is grateful.

"Why didn't you go?" Derek asks, fingers tracing a pattern against the knobs of his spine.

Stiles shrugs. "Dunno," he says. "My dad... Man. He was so proud. You should've -" Stiles hiccups. "Shoulda seen the look on his face when I told him I declined it. Like everything he believed in me for just shattered around him."

Derek asks, "Were you using?" And Stiles hiccups and nods against Derek's stomach, nose brushing against Derek's dark tee.

"'M tired," Stiles whines. "Derek if I just -"

"No," Derek says. And he says it so simply; it's not mean or meant to hurt Stiles, it's just his honest answer. Stiles chokes on a sob. He's so _tired_ , and all he wants is just one. One shot. He knows he'll feel better, and he hates Derek for saying no.

Derek's hand goes back to stroking his spine and Stiles calms a little. Derek looks proud, and Stiles likes that look. He likes making Derek proud. He wants to do it more.

Stiles falls asleep thinking of more ways to make Derek proud.

+

"When was your first time?" Stiles shivers and Derek pulls him closer, pulls the blanket over both of them. He's not puking anymore and he's moved from the bathroom floor to Derek's bed.

Derek clutches him. "I was sixteen and stupid," he says. "She was older attractive and more experienced and she broke my heart."

Stiles hums under his breath and shudders again. His teeth are chattering but he's not cold.

"When was yours?" Derek asks him. His finger is tracing circles on the top of Stiles' hand.

Stiles doesn't say anything for a long time. Then he says, "I let someone fuck my mouth for a hundred fifty. And then two days later someone paid three fifty to devirginize me."

"Jesus, Stiles."

Stiles closes his eyes and shudders again. Derek clutches him even tighter and Stiles hums again. "At least I don't have a sad story," he says. "At least no one got to break my heart or hurt me."

"I'd rather it meant something than nothing at all," Derek says sharply.

Stiles doesn't have an answer for that.

+  
"What were you going to major in?"

The withdrawal symptoms are, for the most part gone. It's been a week and Stiles has mood swings like crazy, and sometimes he looks outside and gets the urge to run out there and find his dealer and offer him his first born child for a couple ounces and a needle. But he doesn't, because he thinks of Derek and his contract, the look of pride on Derek's face. The look of encouragement on Erica's.

"Business," Stiles tells him. Derek arches a brow.

"International business," Stiles continues. "I wanted to see Paris, and live there."

"Never get to do that if you're on drugs," Derek clicks his tongue. He can tell why Stiles is looking out the window so much.

"The closest I've come to Paris is the town in the United States," Stiles tells him. "They have a little Eiffel Tower."

Derek says, "I love Paris. It's a city to get lost in."

"So is New York," Stiles says. "Nobody found me for two years."

Derek doesn't say anything but he looks pleased.

+

On the weekdays when Derek can't be there because he's at the office, Erica or Boyd usually stay with him. Sometimes Stiles gets angry and tells them he doesn't need a babysitter. Other times, with Boyd, he plays the Xbox or watches a movie and they sit in silence. When Erica is there, they bake or cook. It's something Stiles hasn't done in well over two years. He used to cook for his dad all the time. Erica retraces him how to make cookies and how long pasta should cook for, and slowly memories of his own recipes come back to him, and he writes the ingredients he needs on the grocery list for Boyd, who goes shopping for Derek every Thursday morning.

Boyd is Derek's driver, bodyguard, and personal assistant. Stiles thinks he's probably Derek's best friend because he always seems to know just what Derek needs, and when.

Stiles starts cooking for Derek. Derek looks skeptical the first time he comes home to find Stiles in the kitchen with Boyd sitting at the island flipping through a newspaper. "It's just oven baked chicken," Stiles shrugs. "And mashed potatoes."

Derek arches a brow but eats it and looks surprised at how good it actually is. He grunts his thanks because Derek's not really all that great at talking, but Stiles sees it, the little look of pride at something _he_ did, and his stomach flutters with pleasure at the fact that he gets to see that expression again.

Even though Derek isn’t good at talking, he’s good at listening. Sometimes the urge to run outside and find the nearest dealer is so overwhelming, slamming into Stiles in powerful waves; waves that make his fingers tremble and his knees bounce and his teeth clack against each other as his brain whirs, faster and faster. So he has to talk. He talks about a lot of nothing. Playing lacrosse in high school, how he once worked his way through every F. Scott Fitzgerald novel because that was his mother’s favorite author, even though he hated reading them. He talks about living in a small town, and how he played little league when he was younger, and how chocolate marshmallow is his favorite ice cream color.

Stiles knows Derek listens because suddenly in the freezer after the weekly grocery trip, chocolate marshmallow ice cream is there, and a set of novels is waiting by Stiles’ side of the bed one morning when he wakes up, and _The Great Gatsby_ is sitting on top. Derek buys Stiles clothes – sends Erica out for them, but one night he comes home with a bag from the sports store, and when Stiles opens it, it’s a Mets tee, even though Derek grimaces at the look of delight on Stiles’ face. 

“Not all of us are pretentious Yankee fans,” Stiles teases, and Derek rolls his eyes. 

It’s not all easy, though. Some days Stiles wakes up and he’s miserable and he can’t crawl out of bed, and his head hurts every time he blinks his eyes. He’ll stay balled up under the covers even after Derek leaves, and when Derek wishes him goodbye, it’s all Stiles can do not to snarl at him that this is his fault. Because one time he does do that, and Derek just looks at him for a long moment. 

“If you want me to take the blame for keeping you alive,” Derek says, “you can bet I will. Goodbye, Stiles.” 

Stiles throws a water bottle at Erica after Derek leaves, and in retaliation Erica goes into the bathroom and fills up a huge cup of ice water and dumps it on Stiles. Stiles figures he had it coming but he still screams about how much he hates her for five minutes straight, standing in Derek’s bedroom, drenched in ice cold water, while Erica laughs. 

Erica says she thinks Stiles has depression – which, duh, and Derek calls a psychiatrist who does in home visits – for probably a ridiculous amount of money. He comes in and introduces himself, and Stiles likes him. His name is Dr. Deaton and he has kind eyes and a calm voice and he’s easy to talk to. He comes once a week, talks to Stiles, and prescribes him Wellbutrin that Erica, Boyd, or Derek give to him every morning. 

It helps because there are less bad days after he starts taking them and talking to Dr. Deaton. He talks to Dr. Deaton about the things he can’t talk to Derek or Erica or Boyd about, because he knows Dr. Deaton can’t use the information to hurt him – only make him better. He doesn’t think Derek would ever use the information to hurt him, but there’s still something in the back of Stiles’ mind that reminds him that Derek is _paying_ Stiles to get clean, and what happens if he decides to terminate that deal? Where will Stiles be then? 

It’s a worry the constantly nags at him, but Stiles never voices it, and Derek never shows any signs of wanting to terminate their contract. 

+

Stiles gets bored one day and decides he’s perfectly able to leave the house without Derek. He’s been out a few times. Derek has taken him to dinner a couple times at a little diner down the street, just to get out, but he hasn’t mentioned Stiles leaving for anything else. And Stiles is going stir crazy. Derek’s apartment is nice – it’s great, but it’s just not what he needs to see. He’s used to breathing in smoggy air and hearing traffic surrounding him, his breath fog his only comfort as he wanders the streets out of boredom after a slow night or a high. He needs _out._

He waits until Boyd goes grocery shopping on Thursday morning. He gives him a twenty minute head start, and then bundles up and heads out. Derek lives in a much nicer neighborhood than Stiles did, and the doorman is the same one who tips his hat to Stiles every time he leaves with Derek. He doesn’t seem to notice that what Stiles is doing is in breach of his contract with Derek. Stiles doesn’t think anyone but he, Derek, Boyd, and Erica know about the contract anyway. He’s nervous because he’s worried about how Derek will react, but he’s excited to be out, on his own, getting fresh air and walking streets he hasn’t walked in near a month now. 

He doesn’t go near his old apartment, or the streets he used to work. He doesn’t try to find Sammy. Dr. Deaton has been telling him that he can’t have any enablers in his life – that even though Derek’s rules may seem stifling, they’re keeping Stiles on the right path, and Stiles has realized that it’s true – all of his old friends enabled him. Even back in Beacon Hills, Scott never outright told Stiles he disapproved, and Jackson always scored for Stiles if he asked. 

His head is clouded because Dr. Deaton has been telling him it’s time to consider getting into contact with his dad and Scott. Part of recovery is apologizing and mending broken fences, and his dad and Scott are the fence with the huge, gaping hole in it that Stiles isn’t even sure how to start mending. It makes him nervous, thinking about calling his dad or Scott after three years of no contact. It makes him antsy but not in an I-need-to-use way. More in an I-need-to-get-this-over-with way, a way that makes Stiles brain fire a little faster. He’s always been an energetic person – part of the reason he fell for the drugs so hard in the first place was because they slowed him down, put him at a pace that seemed more relative to the rest of the human race. 

He walks for close to an hour before finding himself in front of Derek’s apartment building again. The doorman eyes him. “Mr. Boyd was lookin’ for you,” he says nervously. 

“Yeah,” Stiles shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “I figured.” He heads inside and takes the elevator to Derek’s floor. 

The door swings open before he even has a chance to touch his fingers to the doorknob, revealing a frustrated, worried, and _angry_ looking Derek. Derek takes one look at him, reaches out, and hauls him in by the shirt. He slams the door and pushes Stiles up against the wall, looking him straight in the eyes. He says, “Strip.” 

Stiles goes wide eyed. “What?”

“Strip. Empty your pockets, show me your arms – everything, Stiles.” Stiles hesitates and Derek snarls at him. “You violated your contract, you’re lucky I’m even letting you in this apartment, Stiles.” 

Stiles licks his lips. “I didn’t –” 

“Stiles. Just _do what I tell you to._ ”

Stiles pulls his shirt off. Derek nods for him to continue. So Stiles huffs and throws his shirt across the room and unbuttons his jeans and shoves them down his legs. He sticks out his arms, showing Derek his forearms. There’s nothing but old scars. Derek studies him for a moment long, Stiles standing in the entrance to the apartment in nothing but his briefs, arms held out to Derek. He reaches out and traces a finger along a dotting of scarred marks, before nodding. “Erica’s still doing a drug test,” he says. 

Stiles doesn’t even argue. He wants Derek to feel proud that he went outside by himself and didn’t even think about giving into temptation, but he knows what he did was a violation of his contract, so he goes to where Erica’s waiting with a plastic cup, and takes it without hesitation. He doesn’t even put up a fight when Boyd stands in front of the open bathroom door. He comes out and Erica goes in and tests it. 

“Clean,” she says. Derek is sitting at his desk, facing the wall of windows that looks out over his neighborhood and the city, and Stiles can see his frown. 

“Fine,” he says flatly. Erica pats Stiles’ cheek before walking out. 

Stiles looks at Boyd. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. Boyd offers him a small smile before disappearing, too. 

Stiles stands there fidgeting while Derek looks out the window. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Derek, and the silence is suffocating. If his punishment is Derek not talking to him, Stiles doesn’t think he can handle it. Derek never really _talks,_ but he ‘hmm’s’ and ‘ah’s’ and nods along, and Stiles just doesn’t want him to be _disappointed_ in him. “I’m sorry,” he finally offers to Derek. 

Derek turns the chair around to face him. There’s a flat, resigned look on his face. “Did you want to leave?” he asks. Stiles shakes his head frantically. 

“No. I just – I wanted to – I needed out. I needed to be on my own. I needed to prove to myself that I – that I could. Do it. Go outside and not go looking for – it. And I didn’t, Derek. I didn’t go anywhere near it. Please, I swear.” Stiles pleads with Derek to believe him. 

Derek studies him. “They say you’re not supposed to believe a drug addict,” Derek tells him. 

Stiles feels the throb at the back of his throat that says he wants to cry. “Have I ever lied to you before?” he croaks. 

“If you’re desperate enough, do I know what you’ll do?” Derek asks him in return. 

Stiles grows angry at this. “You know what, Derek? You chose to do this. You chose to take a complete stranger in and have them sign a contract and get them clean and it’s not my fault if you don’t fucking know me well enough to know that I’m telling the truth right not. Sure, I broke our contract. And if you want to terminate it, well – I’ll be so fucking mad at myself. But I did nothing besides walk outside. I didn’t do drugs; hell, I hardly even _thought_ about going out and using. I don’t know what happened in your past, I don’t know who fucked you over so bad to believe everyone you know is lying to you, but that’s _not me._ ” 

When he finishes, Stiles is breathing hard and staring at him wide eyed, and Derek is staring back, eyes narrowed. Stiles thinks he’s going to tell him his story, finally, but he doesn’t. Instead he just says, “I called Dr. Deaton and asked him to come for an emergency appointment. Maybe you can talk to him about this. I have to go back to the office. Erica will be back in a few minutes.” 

Stiles says, “Fuck you,” and stomps to the bedroom, slamming the door. 

+

“What do you think calling my dad will really do for me?” Stiles asks Erica while she mixes cake batter. It’s a chocolate cake. She’s planning on peanut butter icing, because Stiles told her that’s Derek’s favorite. He vaguely remembers talking about it in the early stages of his withdrawal. Erica hums under her breath thoughtfully. She’s dressed in sweats today, and her hair is tied back. When she walked through the door she looked upset, and she told Stiles that one of her patients at the rehab that had been her favorite had overdosed two days after he got released from the program. 

“At the least, it will let him know you’re alive,” Erica offers. 

Stiles rests his chin in his hand and watches her move around the kitchen in silence for a while. “He was so mad,” he finally says. “And like. I think he felt like he lost his wife and his son, so close together. Because I just let him down and he wanted no part of that.” 

“I think he thought he was doing the right thing. A lot of parents make the wrong decisions when their children are in the middle of killing themselves. It’s not like they know what to do, or ever expected their kid to get hooked on heroin or crack. How are they supposed to know how to react when their children do get hooked on it?” 

“My dad is a cop – a Sheriff,” Stiles tells her. “He wasn’t just disappointed, he felt like I never should’ve done it, because he taught me all the dangers of those things.” 

Erica hums again. 

“I have a lot of people to apologize to,” Stiles says. Erica smiles at him. 

“I think they’ll forgive you.” 

“Derek still hasn’t.” Erica frowns at this. 

“Stiles… did Derek ever tell you about his – his past?” Stiles shakes his head. “Ask him tonight, okay? Just tell him you want to know. Maybe he’ll tell you, maybe he won’t. But it’s kind of – there’s a reason he chose you, okay? Believe me when I say that.” 

Stiles sighs. “I’ll ask him,” he says. 

He does ask him, later that night, when they’re eating takeout at the kitchen island in the dim light, and there’s still that same stretch of awkward silence between them that’s been there since Stiles left the apartment without Derek or a chaperone of some time. Derek freezes, fork halfway to his mouth, before he sets it down. “I just – why did you choose me?” Stiles asks. 

There’s another long stretch of silence between them, but Stiles thinks it’s because Derek’s trying to think of what he’s going to say. Derek gets up and disappears to the bedroom for a moment, and when he comes back he hands Stiles a photo. The photo is of a girl grinning at whoever took the picture, and she looks _happy._ When Stiles studies for an appropriate amount of time, he looks back up at Derek, confused. 

“You have her eyes,” Derek says softly. 

“I don’t – she was your girlfriend?” Derek shakes his head.

“My sister,” he responds. Stiles clutches the picture a little tighter instinctively, like he’s trying to get to know her. “We were going to my apartment, the night I found you. I was looking out the window, and I saw you standing on the street, so I had Boyd circle back around and park. You looked directly at me through the tinted windows.” 

Stiles vaguely remembers staring into the blackened windows of a sleek black town car, but he hadn’t realized at the time that it had been Derek’s. 

“I – you – the look in your eyes. It was the same haunted one Laura always had in the end. Like you couldn’t outrun your ghosts anymore. And you had her eyes, so it just… shocked through to the core of me. And I thought. I thought that if I couldn’t save her, maybe I could save you, Stiles.” 

“She –” 

“She was smart. And kind, and beautiful, and funny. She was a perfect human being,” Derek says, staring down at the countertop. “And then my parents died. And she said it was her fault – she’d met some girl who had a vengeance for my dad after he had won a case against her father, or something. So she cut the brake line on my parents car when they were driving out to the Hamptons for a weekend, and they died, and Laura blamed herself and searched for a way to…” 

“Forget,” Stiles finishes. Derek nods. His fingers are trembling. Stiles reaches out and tangles them with his own fingers, and Derek calms down.

“Did it work?” Stiles asks, repeating back what Derek asked him that first night. 

Derek looks up at him. “That depends on what you think about dying. I – I tried to get her help. To make her better. She went through the program but she got out and just. She fell back into it. She was too overwhelmed with guilt.” 

Stiles closes his eyes. So that’s how he met Erica. “I’m sorry, Derek. I don’t – I want – I. I don’t want to let you down. I like it when I make you proud, Derek. I like it when you hold me and I like it when you tell me I’m doing a great job and this isn’t just about the money. It’s about you, and how you make me feel.” 

“How do I make you feel?” Derek asks, staring at Stiles. 

And in that moment, Derek looks at him so openly and clearly, honest and radiant, that Stiles knows he can tell him how Derek makes him feel, and Derek will probably answer with the exact same feelings. It makes Stiles’ stomach flutter in the good way, the way that he enjoys. The thrill of having someone to care about, and having someone care about him – they’re _good_ butterflies and Stiles never wants them to go away. 

“You make me feel safe,” he says honestly. “And you give me butterflies – the good kind, the kind that I never want to disappear. I feel complete when you walk through to door. I feel happy when I get to see your smile. I feel warm when you wrap yourself around me at night. I – _Derek,_ ” Stiles chokes a little. “I don’t want to be paid to stay here, I want to stay here because you _want_ me here in your bed every night, and cooking in your kitchen every evening.” 

He’s still holding Derek’s hand, and Derek uses it to tug Stiles out of his seat and forward. He rests his forehead against Stiles’ own, and looks him directly in the eye. “Yes,” he says. And it’s so simple, so matter of fact, that Stiles can’t help but lean forward and press his lips against Derek’s, and Derek kisses back, and it’s the greatest kiss Stiles has ever experienced.

Stiles can say he lost his virginity for three hundred and fifty bucks in the backseat of a rusted out Cobalt, and it’s probably true, in a sense. But Derek is the first one who is ever truly gentle with him, who takes his time and memorizes dips and curves and scars on Stiles’ body, who breaks away from kissing the skin of his hip to lean up and kiss his lips again, before turning him over and pressing fingers inside of him. 

Derek’s the first one who has ever taken his time, spent agonizing minutes, one finger at a time stretching him out, kissing the spot between his shoulders and whispering little compliments that make Stiles flush with pleasure. Stiles isn’t perfect but he loves when Derek says he’s perfect for _him._ Derek is the first one who makes him see stars the moment he presses inside of him with his cock instead of his fingers, and Stiles doesn’t stop seeing stars as he thrusts in and out. Derek’s the first one who makes Stiles come first, who pets his spine and tells him to let go and makes Stiles choke on a sob and cry out his name, right before he falls over the edge. Derek’s the first one to say his name, _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,_ and make it sound smooth as silk. 

Stiles feels… infinite, in that moment. Like life is nothing but a bunch of numbers and days, and like he’s a part of the air surrounding them, and the only thing that matters is that Derek’s wrapped around him, tangled inside him, tied together with golden strands of love and affection and care. Derek’s seen his bad side and he’s accepted it, shown Stiles his own bad side, and neither of them see each other any differently. 

Hands tangled together, Derek kisses his shoulder and whispers, “I think I might love you.” 

And Stiles whispers back, “I think I might love you more.” 

+

“Hi, Dad.” 

There’s silence. Then there’s the sound of a choked off sob. Stiles clutches Derek’s hand tighter, and Derek squeezes back and gives him an encouraging look. 

“I thought you were _dead,_ Stiles.” 

Stiles doesn’t tell him how he very nearly was dead, how some of the things he’s done still strike him deep to the core and sometimes make him wish that had been the case, instead of struggling through every single day. All he has to do is look at Derek’s face, or call him or text him, though, and it’s a fleeting feeling before he’s _thankful_ he’s alive, that Derek found him and decided to keep him and fix him. A broken toy left out for the garbage that someone found and kept and fixed and made work again, and Stiles can never thank him enough, but sometimes he tries. 

He’s taking classes to be a paralegal now, because Derek says he’s really good at understanding the law, and he should do that until he can study for his LSATs and maybe go to law school. It’s nice because it keeps his mind busy on the bad days, the days where he struggles to get out of bed and not run outside and find someone to score for him. 

“I’m not dead, Dad,” Stiles says softly. “I just… disappeared for a while. I’m okay now. I’m actually really… really good.” Derek smiles at him. “I’ll tell you all about it, if you want. But first, I need to apologize...” 

And Stiles takes his time, because time? It’s a thing that he’s got now.

**Author's Note:**

> if you don't hate me yet, you can find me on tumblr at dylanobilinski.


End file.
